I set fire to the rain
Watched it pour as I touch your face
Well, it burned while I cried
'Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name
I set fire to the rain
And I threw us into the flames
When we fell, something died
'Cause I knew that that was the last time, the last time, oh
Oh, no
Let it burn, oh
Let it burn
Let it burn

Adele - Set Fire To The Rain

A high-pitched whining noise was driving Sam crazy. He tried to ignore it but it stopped him from going back to sleep. It was a sharp, uncomfortable buzzing that was hurting his teeth. It even sounded like a dentist drill. Had Dean left the TV on? His head was pounding, and he couldn't remember where they'd gone the night before. Damn, he and Dean must have really tied one on.

Oh shit, I'm gonna throw up. He opened his eyes so he could find his way to the nearest porcelain god, then saw he wasn't at a motel.

Or at the bunker.

Or even in a bed.

What the hell was he doing in a car?

Didn't matter. Need to hurl.

He fumbled with wet, swollen fingers to open the car door but couldn't get out - he was trapped. He began to panic until he realized he was wearing a seatbelt. Dizzily he unclipped it and managed to open the door. Then wondered why he was now lying on wet ground, looking up at grey clouds moving against a black sky. 'What the…?' He must have fallen out of the car.

The urge to throw up passed as he lay still, letting the cold rain zing against his face. The piercing whistle inside his head receded to merely awful instead of severe.

The shivering wasn't good though.

'Ok, work this out one step at a time. It's night. It's raining. I hurt all over and I feel sick. No, that doesn't narrow it down much.'

Someone was screaming his name.

"Ok, ok…" he went to get up and was poleaxed by a deep and terrible pain from his midriff.

The weird confusion vanished instantly, and Sam knew straight away that the cut on his torso had ripped further open. Agony erupted from his belly as he writhed on the muddy gravel path, gasping and clutching at his stomach. "Shit, shit, shit" were the only legible words coming out of his mouth.

It took way, way too many minutes before he got the burning pain somewhere under control. The bandaging, now completely soaked through, was barely wrapped around him anymore. Infection and blood loss were a serious concern, not that he actually had any time be concerned about himself. He had to get up.

Had to.

He needed to know the state of the damage to the house. So he curled onto his side and lay still for a heartbeat, before rolling onto his shredded hands and knees. From there, he used the car to help him stand up. Christ he was dizzy. Like his concussion wasn't bad enough anyway, he'd had to go and give his brain another shake by crashing a car into a house. Twice.

Even though blurred vision, it was clear the entire window and frame was completely gone. The huge Range Rover was instead neatly wedged into the facade. It took a second for Sam to figure out it was the car keeping the upper part of the wall in place. That had to change.

With no joy whatsoever, he climbed unsteadily onto the driver's seat. The windscreen was cracked, but his face, reflected back to him from the crazed glass was worse. He took a closer look in the rear-view mirror and was shocked. His lip was busted before the crash, and now the rest of his features matched it. He had hit the steering wheel violently, his forehead had a two-inch gash running across it and he had to keep wiping the blood out of his eyes, now that the rain wasn't washing it away. His nose was just as broken as Dean's and three of his teeth were definitely wobbly. He thought he might have fractured his jaw too, the right-hand side was pulsing with shooting pains and beginning to swell.

With his torso too painful to twist around, he used the mirror to check on the Havershams behind him; he'd ignored them for long enough. It seemed passenger airbags had gone off in the back, so they didn't look anywhere near as bad as they could have. But having their arms behind them when they hit the wall must have really wrenched their shoulders. Especially the second time.

Simon was just crying and crying and Haversham was head down, quietly mumbling something to himself.

Sam shifted the transmission into reverse. He was truly amazed the battered car was still running. If he ever won the lottery he'd have to think about getting himself a Range Rover. They weren't just pretty, they could walk the walk.

"Don't do it again, please don't!" Simon started to wail louder.

Sam also really, really hoped he wouldn't have to do it again.

He stopped backing the car up about two feet away from the house. A good-sized chunk of brick and blocks rained down. It quickly became a cascade as more bricks followed. The house made a tormented groaning noise and Sam knew exactly how it felt.

Then a strange sensation washed over him. Similar to the sound of a bag of potato chips popping open, but it was a sensation he felt in his hair follicles rather than heard with his ears. It made his skin feel oily and his lungs tighten. Then it was gone, the pressure releasing like a bubble bursting. It was followed up by a wet scream that sounded as if it was coming from right behind him.

He'd...he'd actually destroyed the warding.

Sam let go of the steering wheel, leaning his throbbing right hand against his chest, and his hot forehead against the cold driver's window. Whatever happened now, he knew he'd done his best for Castiel and Dean. He could have cried in relief. Might even have done so, if the door hadn't been flung open and a hand hadn't grabbed him by the neck, physically throwing him out of the car.

He landed hard on the gravel path, instinctively curling inwards as agony radiated from his riven torso. He barely noticed the kicks to his back or head, he was already so overloaded with pain.

He didn't, couldn't resist as he felt himself being dragged towards the listing house.

This time when he jolted awake, Sam knew where he was straight away. Back in Haversham's tidy little dining room. He was lying on his side on the floor, Dean next him.

"Dean..." Sam whispered. Then cried out as his broken face spiked in pain.

"S'ok Sammy…" Dean was there. Barely. But there.

A foot shoved his shoulder down forcing Sam onto his back. He cried out in pain again, unable to stop himself. Above him was Haversham. Or something that once looked like Haversham.

"What the…?" Sam would've immediately backed the hell away if he'd been able.

The man that stood over him was coated from head to toe in a thick film of blood. His eyes were completely bloodshot, no whites remaining at all. Plus, he appeared to have lost thirty pounds from his already slim body and his suit shirt and trousers hung wetly and loosely against his bones. He was also panting like he'd run a fast marathon.

"What did you do..?" Sam asked, a cold burst of fear switched places with the pain, for a moment.

"You don't back a Tiger into a corner, Sam. Everyone knows that..."

"What did you do?" Sam asked again.

"Something...terrible."

"What. Did. You. Do?" Sam was scared. Really scared.

"I used a one-shot, zero-hour spell I learned many years ago from a demon-fucking whore witch."

Haversham's foot left Sam's shoulder. He disappeared as he walked around the other side of the table. Sam took the moment to glance over at Dean and they both frowned as a fresh clatter of masonry rained down from somewhere upstairs, reminding them the house was in the process of falling down.

Haversham re-entered Sam's vision. He was doing a bad job of wiping his face down with one of the white cotton napkins. "I'd always avoided invoking the spell as I was told it shortens one's life expectancy by about fifteen years. But, trapped in my car and watching my house being destroyed, I finally thought the trade was worth taking. After all, there was a fifty-fifty chance I was going to die anyway thanks to the XO."

Haversham knelt down close to Sam, blood dripping down from his hair onto Sam's upturned face. "But...you see, that's not all the invocation took from me." His breathing was still too fast, and Sam could smell something foul as he spoke. "In order to cast it I needed to make a blood sacrifice. One very similar, in fact, to the spell work that kept you behind our cell door all those weeks ago. So I offered up my firstborn son - my only son - in exchange for his life force. I figured what the hell, he also had a fifty-fifty chance from the XO."

"You...killed Simon?!" Sam remembered the short scream that had sounded like it was coming from behind him in the car, just after the warding came down.

"No, you did." Haversham spat. "Or would have, anyway." He stood back up, knees creaking loudly. "As soon as I took on all of that power I was connected within myself. I searched every vein and muscle internally and I saw the XO wasn't inside of me. Therefore, it was inside of Simon. Had I not sacrificed him, he would have died anyway."

"No! No, he wouldn't have!" Although it hurt like a bitch to talk, Sam couldn't stop the words from spilling out. "There was no XO in you, in either of you; we just said it to keep you quiet. It was you that killed Simon...you!"

Haversham grimaced, his features twisting into something abnormal. He roared, lashing out at Sam, kicking him squarely in the face. Sam's scream was raw as teeth flew and broken bones crunched.

Time wavered, flaring in and out in tune with Sam's consciousness. Inky-black nausea gave rise to burning torment, before sinking back to darkness again. Minutes, maybe hours passed before somewhere underneath all the pain he realized Dean's fingers were gripped around his right wrist, nails urgently digging in to his skin. The close contact was enough to force Sam back to reality. He wobbled his wrist a couple of times to let Dean know he was mostly awake.

Haversham was seated at the table, sucking on a brandy like he was dying of thirst. Plaster dust from the failing ceiling above him stuck to the blood in his hair. He'd turned his chair towards the Winchesters to better look down on them.

"You killed my son. Shortened my life. Destroyed my car, and my house, and worst of all...you completely annihilated the British Men of Letters, leaving 65 million British subjects at terrible risk. I genuinely do not know how I am going to make you both pay for all that. I mean, I'll try, but no amount of your suffering can undo the damage you've done."

"How 'bout if we say sorry?" Dean slurred. "You think that might help?"

Sam snorted, then regretted it immediately as the broken bones in face jarred together.

Haversham drank again, unnaturally thirsty.

"What did that spell do to you?" Dean asked. "You don't look right."

"All sorts of horrid things I should imagine. But it was worth it, so long as I outlive you two bastards."

"Well none of us bastards are gonna live long if we stay inside this house."

"Nonsense, this house was solidly built. I'll more than take the risk."

"Good for you." Sam felt Dean stir beside him. "Cause I fucking won't." Dean, somehow, dragged himself over to the nearest chair and drunkenly used it stand. "Come on Sammy, let's go get Cas then blow this joint."

Sam coughed out another small laugh. Still lying on his back, he bent his knees, sliding his boots against the floor. Two fairly feeble efforts took him as far as the nearest wall. The gauge on his fuel tank dropped to E, then sunk to 'now you're just taking the piss' as he got halfway upright. So he sat back down and tried to convince himself that the wall he was leaning against wasn't tilting at a strange angle.

Dean's bravado fizzled out just as quickly. He fell into the chair, breathing ragged and wet sounding.

Haversham sat back, watching them struggle. Enjoying them struggle.

The Winchesters were fucked, and they all knew it.

"What you said about leaving people unprotected. What about the Government? Those Ministry of Defense people you work with?" Dean's curiosity was sincere. "Don't any of them know about the...supernatural side of things?"

"Of course they don't!" Haversham scolded. "Does yours?"

"Um. No, good point."

"Governments are worse than useless. Dangerous even. And yours more than most. Your President Rooney is more concerned with getting his end away than tangling with ghosts and demons." Haversham thirstily took several more gulps from his glass. "I hear he's even got an aide pregnant, quite the scandal."

"I wouldn't know – I don't go much for politics."

"Color me surprised." Haversham raised one eyebrow in derision.

"Yup - a hot bartender and a cold beer are more my thing."

Sam noticed something in Dean's demeanor change. It was subtle, just a shift in the shoulders, a change of tone in his voice that no one but Sam would have noticed. His heart quickened.

"Just so you know, I never planned on leaving the UK without anyone to deal with all the nasties that are gonna come running once they find out you're all dead. I'll make sure to send some hunters over, give 'em an all expenses paid."

"American hunters?!" Haversham quickly stood up, raging. If anything was going to send him over the edge, it seemed that was the killer blow. "American hunters?!" He yelled again. Haversham took a powerful swing at Dean. Punched him hard enough to send him rolling off the chair and onto the floor.

"Those apes come here?! Over my dead body!"

Dean spat out a gobbet of blood. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're already here. And yeah, I will be the one standing over your shriveled up old carcass."

Haversham launched into Dean again, this time with his feet. Dean cowered, withstanding the blows until Haversham stopped abruptly.

"Oh, oh! Yes…very clever...I see what you're doing...but your attempts to rile me into giving you a quick death won't work."

"Yeah, that's what I'm doing, provoking you to kill us. You saw right through my clever plot." Dean rolled his eyes as Haversham didn't pick up on the sarcasm. Dean looked at Sam. "Can you believe this guy?"

Unable to open his mouth properly to talk, Sam just shook his head.

"Hey, your almighty Sir Keithness - you finished guzzling that jug of water all by yourself? Doesn't look like anything left but dust and empty air."

Sam's gaze shot towards the table.

Haversham mistook Sam's sudden interest in the jug. "Why, are you boys getting thirsty? I bet you are. Well tough, you won't get a drop of water from me, so suffer! Anyway, you won't live long enough to die of thirst. I've other, more horrific ways to kill you both."

"I'll you what's a horrific way to die…" Dean smiled. "The way you're gonna."

Sam used the adrenaline spike to raise himself to his feet, clumsily, like a newborn giraffe. He needed, desperately, to see what Dean had.

It was true. The glass that Sam had wrongly assumed was filled with brandy, was on the table, right next to the jug that Dean had emptied all the Little Fuckers into. And that self-same jug was now empty.

If Sam had been able to laugh, he would have. Hard and deep and with great pleasure.

Dean had baited Haversham alright. To get him to move and to activate the growth of at least a dozen XOs.

Dean carried on. "You know what's coming next is on you right? If you hadn't taken my brother and killed my mom, none of this would've happened."

"What are you talking about? What's coming next is your ghastly death, not mine!"

Clutching onto his stomach, Dean awkwardly forced himself up off the floor and back into the chair. His breathing was shallow and fast. "If you believe that's true then can you do me the honor of fulfilling the last wish of a dying man? Open your cupboard doors, there." He pointed over at the sideboard.

"What…why?" Even through his giddy haze of power, Haversham couldn't help but notice Dean's confidence.

"Just do it already."

To Sam's amazement, Haversham actually did go over to the sideboard. And opened the doors. Dozens of hastily put away glass bottles spilled out and clattered to the floor.

"What the…what have you done…?" Underneath the sticky crimson film that still coated his face, Sam saw Haversham's face go pale.

"Figure it out. But don't take too long! And I'd sit reeeaaal still whilst you do it…."

"No. No, no, no." As much as Haversham protested, Sam could see the cogs inside his brain working it out. There hadn't been a jug of water in the dining room earlier. He knew there hadn't. And now…

"No, no, no…it's another bluff."

"I'm all out of bluffs. Used too many of them in the last couple of days and I've run dry."

"I don't believe you!"

"Yeah you do. You're already dead and you know it."

Haversham took a final moment to absorb the words. "In that case, I'll damn well make sure you die first!"

He rushed Dean. Dean was expecting it and threw himself sideways, falling out of his chair. Haversham's angry attack was wild, giving Dean a chance to back away from the raging man. Not that there was anywhere to go; the living room was fairly small and Dean was weakening by the minute anyway. So he made a last stand in front of Sam, determined to protect his little brother to the end.

Haversham grabbed Dean by the neck. Dean kicked out and missed. Tried again and caught a knee. Haversham didn't even seem to notice, he was so intent on throttling Dean. He tried again, this time catching Haversham in the balls. This Haversham did notice. "Bastard!" He shouted, before throwing Dean to the floor. Dean gasped for breath, but the damage was done – his chest was fucked before – but now he could barely get any air at all.

Haversham raged on.

Dean backed away, shuffling and wheezing. He might not be able breathe, but he could smile – that particular cocky, self-assured grin that he knew annoyed Sam so much, and would annoy Haversham even more. He was enticing Haversham to follow him. To use more energy.

Haversham obliged, too far gone with crazy to see what Dean was doing. With those three steps forward, the many, many XO's grew and ate and expanded some more, creating a vicious circle. So many of them, all at the same time, fought to suck on Haversham's energy like a litter of newborn piglets. As they moved and grew and jostled for space, they caused more movement, and more energy use. Which meant they fed more, which meant they grew more.

It happened scarily fast. By the time Haversham's left foot had hit the floor on his third step towards Dean, the first of the XO's ripped its way out of its host's neck with a spray of blood that reached as far as Sam. The next one used the same hole to escape, but numbers three, four and five each found their own way out. By number seven, Haversham had dropped to the floor and wasn't moving. Well, he wasn't moving, but the remaining XO's were – Sam could see the final few wriggling around underneath Haversham's chest.

He and Dean looked at each other. Broken, bloody and halfway to dying themselves, they had somehow managed to outlive the last British Man of Letters.

Their next problem was the dozen or so baseball-sized Little Fuckers that were scratching and clawing their way towards them.